


Magician, Reversed

by kromeriffic



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: First Time, M/M, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Porn with Feelings, Seduction, it was supposed to be filth how did it end up like this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27710105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kromeriffic/pseuds/kromeriffic
Summary: “My purpose, little starchaser, is to make your acquaintance, and deliver a warning. No more.” He pinned Urianger with a look, direct and burning.“You have caught my interest. Do not disappoint me."Awaiting the successful summoning of the Warrior of Light, Urianger busies himself with his studies - all while trying not to buckle under the weight of the secrets in his care. When Corinna did arrive, the last thing he expected was an Ascian in her wake.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be PWP, because Kunstpause's Kinktober piece [ As You Watch ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26924959) with this pairing made me go feral for these two. But then I remembered @djyuuji's art [ here ](https://twitter.com/djyuuji/status/1285019360738684928?s=20) and I got feelings all over this as well. 
> 
> Enjoy, and please show them some love too!

Urianger was a man of learning. It was carved on his bones, singing in his blood, weaving through his dreams; careful thought and rational curiosity was who he was.

Under a sky that was constantly, sickeningly boiling with light he laid out his cards, studied constellation maps, pondered, wrote theories, and read any book in his reach.

At least there was no risk here of straining his eyes by reading in poor light. Moenbryda had made a habit of checking on him when the sun fell, and over time she encouraged him to better habits. When he returned to the Source, he would have to build that discipline anew.

If he ever could return.

The Crystal Exarch had entrusted to him a terrible thing: knowledge of the future. A gift with a hook that had bound Urianger, his talents, and his silence, to the Exarch and the dying world under his charge.

Even now, after a few years on the First, the horror of the Eighth Calamity would steal his breath and choke his heart, if he made the error of dwelling too long on the subject.

Urianger should not wish for ignorance, but sometimes, when he woke from a fitful sleep to face the churning light outside, his body aching for a true rest that eluded him since his arrival here, and weighed down with the price of failure – sometimes, he wished that he had never been plucked away from the Source. He half-wished he could seal himself in darkness and peace and the blissful freedom of _not knowing_.

The leafmen had always fascinated him, but for a time it was closer to an obsession, the way they drew his eye during those times. He took the utmost care not to let the Fae catch him staring.

The fancy had passed, of course. With no one to help him carry this weight, he could not permit himself to fail under the strain.

So, Urianger did the next best thing: he buried his fears in action, and study. He was outnumbered, terrified, alone, and with no idea of how to proceed – but of all those foes, ignorance, at least, could be advanced upon and defeated.

And then came the day there was a knock at his door, and Urianger set aside his quill immediately. No one, _no one,_ knocked here: the Fae did as they pleased with no regard for privacy and Thancred simply let himself in, racketing around with Minfilia trailing behind him, golden pale and quiet.

Urianger was too disciplined to let his jaw drop, when he first beheld the Warrior of Light here at his doorstep, _here,_ but he did permit himself a raised eyebrow.

Corinna grinned at him, and gave him a mock-lascivious look from head to foot. Her ears twitched in clear amusement even as her tail jerked up in greeting.

“Nice outfit. Going somewhere special tonight?”

He gestured to the chronometer on the wall – it was some Twelve-damned hour in the morning already – and she simply gave a shrug and sauntered in.

“Full glad I am to see thee delivered safely, Corinna,” he murmured over the soft noises of her settling herself on his sofa, the slight clinks of metal, creak of leather, as she removed some of the more restrictive pieces of armour and set them aside.

“No small thanks to the Fae. I should’ve known you’d pick somewhere awkward to hide yourself. D’you know what we had to go through to find you?”

“Thou did not make the journey alone, then?”

He placed a kettle over the fire without asking – he’d already seen Corinna eyeing his tea caddies. A scant collection compared to his own on the Source, but he felt no small pride in finding anything that resembled tea bushes on the First.

“The twins came with, they’ll be here in minute. I think Alisaie is scouting the perimeter but I’m sure as soon as she hears the kettle she’ll come running.”

“Their respective tasks hath occupied them overlong-“

He was interrupted by Alisaie clattering through the front door, leaving Alphinaud momentarily frozen on the threshold with his fist raised to knock on the door, before he, too slipped inside.

Alisaie cast a longing look at his patchy sofa, but went and helped herself to cups from Urianger’s kitchen, laying one out for each of them. This guestly politeness accomplished, only then did she fling herself down on the sofa and let out a long sigh.

Alphinaud hovered awkwardly a moment, clearly feeling that he ought to assist but lacking Alisaie’s confidence in another’s home. He decided to settle himself primly on another chair, his erect posture slightly spoiled by the chair’s brief wobble before it steadied. He too, sighed.

The Fae must have been particularly capricious today.

“You would not fucking _believe-_ “

“Alisaie!”

“-what the _fuck_ we had to do,” Alisaie was looking Alphinaud direct in the eye, unrepentant, “just to get here. How do you deal with them, Urianger?”

He smiled to himself, pouring hot water into the teapot – glass, a rare thing, a gift from Minfilia, and most likely stolen from Eulmore – and came to set it on the low table between them.

There was a small, raptured silence while they watched the tea leaves, tied into a particular bundle, “bloom” from the heat into a representation of a flower.

The mood settled somewhat, he continued.

“The Fae prize games above most other diversions. They seeketh entertainment, and I make a study of such things as may please and pacify them. In some respects they hold similarities to children, but they art bound by rules stronger than any burden held by an adult.”

Was Urianger so very unlike the Fae then, in his lonely watch over the truth? Bound as no other was, save the Exarch, was he losing the foundation he’d shared with his companions?

He dropped his gaze to his teacup, uncomfortably aware that without his old goggles his face was easier to read. He had lost the knack of complete stoicism in company, despite his best efforts.

Fortunately, no one had noticed his pause. Alisaie was leaning forward, eyes suddenly shining with the soul of a much younger girl, and excitedly asked, “Are they like the stories you used to read with me?”

“I have near-complete certainty that at one time the Fae, or some folk very much like them, made their home on the Source. There were so many details that have since been proven accurate in mine own dealings – these can only be explained by the first tale-spinners having direct contact with the original Fae.”

“Thy memories will serve thee well, my lady, but above all remember this: despite their appearance of frivolity the Fae are dangerous. You must all take great care not to trifle with them, nor anger them, nor underestimate them.”

He felt a pang of sorrow for tainting stories that were clearly a source of joy for Alisaie, but he had seen with his own eyes the fate of those who meddled with the Fae, unthinking. To suppress a shudder, he forced a hint of laughter in his voice and added, “However, I pledge to you all that my food and drink are safe to consume.”

Indeed, he had just seen Corinna drain the last of her tea, and turned to her.

“I expected thee brim-full of news, Corinna. How was the Source at thy departure? What developments from the Crystarium?”

Corinna, staring into space, jerked a little, and hurriedly set her cup back on the table.

“Twelve above, Urianger, it’s good to see you all-“ _conscious,_ he rather thought she would say, before she swallowed, and continued – “and I was merely enjoying your fine company.” She had briefly affected Urianger’s tone before returning to her own, and he could have sworn she breathed something like _back to work._

Was that bitterness he saw in her? But then the moment passed, her aspect turned serious, and she sat a little straighter in her chair.

“I will not repeat the Exarch’s briefing, for you have all heard it before. There is something else though – Urianger, what do you know of one named Emet-Selch?”

He stared, racking his brains.

“A name of high pedigree, I should hazard. I have no recollection of it, otherwise.”

“He is the Ascian charged with the destruction of this star. And he has revealed himself to us.”

“Truly? Then he must be set to disrupt all thine efforts.”

“No, not at all.” Corinna’s voice was flat, tinged with irony. “Emet-Selch is indeed the agent sent to encourage the overabundance of Light aether here on the First, that it might be destroyed and trigger another Calamity on the Source. But he is not interested in stopping us. On the contrary, he finds our efforts…amusing. Apparently we are not a threat to him in the least.”

“It’s as though- “ Alisaie was indignant. “As though he sees us as entertainment! A performance in the market square that one passes and decides to idle with for a time.”

Alphinaud was forming a steeple with his fingers, his eyes narrowed. Presently he said, “His professed lack of action is disturbing to me. If he feels no need to intervene, does that mean we are serving his goals, all unknowing? We can reason our way into action as best we can, believing that we bring salvation to this star, and what if instead we are merely being permitted to aid Emet-Selch in our ignorance?”

There was a very heavy pause. Urianger knew full well that Alphinaud’s mistake with the Crystal Braves still haunted him. That he took the experience’s lesson to heart boded well for the boy – the young man, he corrected himself – but he still did not care to hear another discuss it, least of all to offer comfort. Still, Urianger would risk it.

“Thou will find that there is a harsh penalty for needless self-punishment under this roof, my lord,” he offered mildly.

Alphinaud hung his head a moment, but when he sat up again to meet Urianger’s eyes, there was a core of steel shining in them with only the barest hint of self-reproach. He had grown beyond measure in the past years, a sad side-effect of these desperate times.

Alisaie moved to gently pat her twin on the shoulder, then cleared away the tea set. That was Corinna’s cue to start strapping on her armour, and before he knew it Urianger was settling a dozen practical details of the next fight, and bidding them a safe return to the Crystarium.

***

Urianger could not rest. He simply rolled from one side of his bed to the other in the weird gloom of his room. He’d hung as much fabric in the windows as could be spared: sackcloth was heavy and by far the easiest to acquire, but despite his best efforts the Light shone through the weave, pinpoints mocking the stars that were obscured above.

Eventually he abandoned the attempt at sleep, moving his bedclothes to one side and levering his long body upright.

He had thought to make some tea and read for a time, but there was a dull pressure in his skull that was beyond fatigue. It was so similar to the feeling of being watched by the Fae that he did not hesitate to call out.

“Reveal thyself.”

Instead of a Fae before him, it was a Hyur – or a being in the guise of one – stepping out from a cloud of dark, sluggish aether.

Urianger did not flinch. He had seen this before.

That particular method of aetheric manipulation could only mean that this was the Ascian. Regal features, cold arrogance, ostentatious of dress – it all fit what Urianger had been told.

“My name is Emet-Selch.” He gave an elaborate bow, robes swirling around him.

Urianger did not return any sort of courtesy.

“State thy purpose, Ascian.”

“I will if you state yours _,_ starchaser. I find it a most strange occupation for one stranded here. It interests me.”

He tried not to react to _stranded_ , merely gazed evenly at him. He also tried not to dwell on the fact that he was only in his nightshirt. It was not successful. His hands itched for his cards, his planisphere, but they were resting by the door to his chamber: out of reach.

Slouched as he was, this Emet-Selch was of a height with Urianger, but if he were to use his full height he would stand a few ilms taller.

“Why should I concern myself with thine interests?”

The Ascian smirked.

“As I have told your Warrior, I will only ever speak truth to you. She understood, as you do, I am sure, that many truths and untruths alike can be carried with silence, just as easily as with words. And your silence, starchaser, tells me much.”

He grinned wider, eyes glittering. His voice even gained a dry sense of lecturing to it. Urianger set himself to endure, keeping his breathing steady. This one was clearly fond of his own voice.

“Your objection is against being made _aware_ of my study. Not against my observation itself. Nor against my interest in you at all.”

“D-do not presume to know my thoughts. I am no object-! “

Urianger could not keep himself from spluttering, indignant.

“Is it the attention that appeals to you? You punish yourself here, alone, with no one to mark how you struggle. What use is a heroic effort without witnesses? Perhaps that longing afflicts the Exarch as well… hmm.”

Emet-Selch’s gaze grew abstracted for a moment, looking far away, but he soon returned his focus to Urianger.

Urianger briefly clenched his fists, forced himself to relax them again, and ground out through gritted teeth:

“Certain inanities shall not be dignified with consideration, much less a response. Thou surely did not intrude merely to bother me with this, this-“

Urianger would not permit this conversation to flow on the whims of an Ascian. He must seize the initiative.

“The Warrior told me that thou maketh no plans against us, that thine only wish is to observe our efforts-“

“I like to watch,” Emet-Selch cut in, with the helpful air of one who clarifies a difficult theory.

For a moment, Urianger deeply regretted abandoning his goggles: they concealed his expression so well that he could have rolled his eyes in secret, if he but wore them now. He contented himself with continuing as though he had not been interrupted:

“-Thine only wish is to observe us. There can be no peace with Ascians: this truce on your part will fade soon enough, and only a fool would let this chance to gather information pass him by. I shall ask thee once more to state thy purpose.”

“Ah! So you _are_ curious!”

It was infuriating. Here Urianger stood, fighting to master himself, and this Emet-Selch had the nerve to show triumph.

“And you are no fool.” He returned to thoughtfulness once more. “Indeed, your urge is to prove that you are not. How you long to put an Ascian in his place!”

Urianger blinked. Surely that had not been warmth in his voice?

“Ah, well. I can see that I shall have to be the bigger person here. You lot are so mistrustful.”

“My purpose, little starchaser, is to make your acquaintance, and deliver a warning. No more.” He gave an expressive shrug, lent even greater impact by the decorations on his robes, and then pinned Urianger with a look, direct and burning.

“You have caught my interest. Do not disappoint me. _Urianger_.”

He gave a mocking salute and teleported away before it occurred to Urianger that he had not given Emet-Selch his name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: brief needle mention
> 
> Here it is, the filth that this entire monstrosity was written for - and I'm not done yet.
> 
> Massive thanks to the [Book Club discord](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for their support <3

_Oh, foolish mortal! Thy true name revealed_

_to the Fae, thy heart’s as good as lost._

_Thy name, the soul’s power concealed._

_Thy memories shall be as dust_

_Now at their hands, thy joy consumed -_

Urianger snapped the book shut. The eternal Light pushed in through his windows, unchanged as ever, but he fancied he could feel a shiver in it: a trembling to match his own.

Most fortunately, the old tale of concealing one’s name from the Fae had proven false in Il Mheg – or at least, the danger of revealing it held a more subtle form that he had yet to discern. At one point, Urianger had appreciated the contrast with the Night’s Blessed and their use of many names.

Less so, since his introduction to Emet-Selch.

It shouldn’t bother him so much, it _shouldn’t,_ especially since the Ascian was probably an indiscriminate eavesdropper on all the Scion’s affairs and had access to far more information than he betrayed.

It came to him that Emet-Selch had refused to cede even a scrap of control in their conversation; surely that was the foundation of Urianger’s discomfort.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath for patience, before shelving the book again – in its own, new-made category of _not right now._ It did need transcribing, for the binding and a fair few chapters had been damaged beyond a simple repair, but it was not in immediate danger.

His concentration was failing, his nerves fraying, all because Emet-Selch had appeared to him and warned him not to disappoint, and what did that actually mean? He was certainly becoming a disappointment to himself, to be so unravelled – his work was slowing down, and only the habits of a lifetime kept his home itself from sinking into disarray.

And yet, in the days since their introduction, Urianger had done nothing to seize the chance that had fallen in his lap. Why, just the historical and cultural knowledge alone that was now within his reach, if he only had the courage to take it.

Emet-Selch had spoken of Urianger’s curiosity with apparent relish. Surely he would be expecting questions, may even welcome the chance to talk. He had first-hand knowledge of empires that had faded to near-mythological status, and Urianger surely had an opportunity like no other to create a new array of records.

All Urianger had to do was _ask._ In all his career he had never felt such strong nerves at the most natural of research methods, but if he revealed too much in his speech with Emet-Selch it may jeopardise Corinna’s efforts, may even lend aid to the Ascians without his knowing – for any true academic knew that that flow of knowledge must either go both ways, or none.

What could he possibly offer in exchange? Surely his own studies of the heavens would be child’s play to one such as Emet-Selch; his knowledge of prophecies irrelevant to one who had both seen them written and later proven true or false, accordingly. Was his curiosity alone so pleasing to him?

He sat once more, gripping his hands into fists and resting them on his thighs. While his tasks here were of value, they were not urgent – but he could not countenance permitting this chance to slip past him.

He grabbed some spare paper and started scribbling various areas of interest that Emet-Selch may be persuaded to speak on.

Any disappointment Emet-Selch may feel would be overrun by Urianger’s own if he failed to act. It was galling to think that his own interests would align so neatly with an Ascian’s.

***

“Those charts are inaccurate, you know.”

Accustomed as he was to Emet-Selch’s sudden appearances now – as accustomed as he could be, under the circumstances – Urianger barely reacted to the breath over his ear.

He waited for him to elaborate, still studying his sky map. Emet-Selch rarely needed an invitation to speak on, after all. One only had to be patient: he had taught Urianger this lesson very quickly.

“You probably wouldn’t notice it if the night returned right now. One hundred years is a less than an eye-blink to the stars – but we know, we who have been observing the stars for millennia. The skies move in a spiral, not a circle, and the stars are moving further and further away from each all the time. Our old friends are not as immutable as you might think.”

“An effect of the Sundering?” Emet-Selch had a way of catching him, of offering information like bait, like a feast, and Urianger had yet to find a defence.

“No.” He was smirking. “We knew it for fact long before then. The universe is constantly expanding, on a scale that even Amaurot’s observatories could barely grasp.”

Urianger caught his breath, gripped by the idea. Such stately majesty, such a promise of wonder: a growing universe with ever more knowledge to uncover – lifetimes upon lifetimes of it.

“Every year that passes takes you further from the Source, though you cannot feel it.”

And there was the bite of the hook. Emet-Selch’s information always had a price, though it came to Urianger that he, at least, would not demand his allegiance to a desperate cause along with it.

Urianger returned to his book, his face stiff. He swallowed the grief, as he had so many times before, and ignored Emet-Selch’s giggle.

“My lifetime counts as naught to the movements of the stars. There will be no appreciable difference when I return.”

“Maybe not to you.” He had turned serious again, almost solemn. Was that grief edging his words?

Urianger’s neck prickled. He had stepped into some danger here, unknowing - or rather, he stood at the precipice of such, ready to plunge at a misstep. He could hear the creak of floorboards as Emet-Selch moved closer – the hair on his forearms was raising – Emet-Selch was so volatile that he could barely predict his actions; his anger was always cloaked in ice, as immense and implacable as a glacier.

For a heartbeat, Urianger wondered what it would take to break that icy control, but when his sightline to his book of charts was broken by Emet-Selch’s forearm all thought was chased from him.

Emet-Selch was perched on the edge of the table beside Urianger’s chair, liquid and confident and practically caging him in place.

Slowly, compelled by his own curiosity and unable to resist, he raised his eyes to meet Emet-Selch’s gaze. He felt a gloved fingertip trace the tattoo on his cheek, warm leather moving just below his view – it was almost tender.

Emet-Selch’s touch moved further – so light, so _soft_ , Urianger could barely register it – he was following the line of Urianger’s jaw, the muscle that flowed down his neck, and then along the collarbone itself. Passing over to his shoulder, Urianger felt a brief tug to the fabric of his robes, but they were left in place as Emet-Selch removed his hand once more.

His breathing was ragged, held in Emet-Selch’s gaze and limbs rigid. He wanted to curl up and hide. He wanted to stay and hear every barbed truth that Emet-Selch would give; to listen until the ache in his chest would consume him and leave naught else in its wake.

“I can imagine how you looked, when you got that.” Emet-Selch’s gaze was resting on his tattoo now.

“I can see it as though I were there: how you sat beneath the needle, so still, so dignified, entirely quiet _._ Did you fix your thoughts on something else? Did you pretend your skin wasn’t twitching of its own? Could _nothing_ touch you?”

He was touching him again now, tracing an imaginary droplet of sweat as it slid down Urianger’s brow. His smile was widening, his eyes glowing, a burning to rival even the Light-ravaged land.

“Were you rewarded for your restraint?”

His voice had dropped: Urianger could feel it in his bones more than his ears.

It was a lifetime ago. The intent look in Emet-Selch’s eyes: Urianger had seen it before, in Moenbryda, when she had tethered him with her will alone – for where was the entertainment in relying on rope to hold still? She would use her hands and her words to torment him, laughing into the heavy quiet of their room when he couldn’t help but shudder at her ministrations.

And she had rewarded him, too, when his voice broke and he could no longer remain unmoving. He had begged, and her response made it plain that he would want for nothing under her care.

The parallel dizzied him. That Emet-Selch could recall those memories so vividly with the barest of touches and a few words –

“Ahhh.” Warm satisfaction was curling around Emet-Selch’s features now, and Urianger watched him moisten his lips with his tongue, the brief glimpse of wet flesh setting his blood aflame.

This was…this was not appropriate. It was dangerous, and foolish, and if the others knew –

Urianger’s attention fixed on his right arm, braced on the table, the only barrier between himself and Emet-Selch – who, for his part, was completely still as he watched Urianger: waiting for his reaction.

Waiting for Urianger to reach out for what was offered.

His arm felt so heavy; the air itself was slowing him down as he moved it to rest his hand on Emet-Selch’s hip.

He dragged his gaze back up to Emet-Selch’s face and now, _now,_ he was acutely aware of the other towering over him. He swallowed around a catch in his throat, tried to breathe around the lurching warmth in his belly.

“I could show you the stars, if you like.” All the tartness had drained from Emet-Selch’s voice; he sounded far younger for it, almost earnest.

“If that is thine attempt at seduction – “

“Oh, no, it’s not a metaphor.” His eyes crinkling in amusement, he reached for Urianger’s shoulders and helped him stand up.

Urianger was still touching him; his eyes were still locked to Emet-Selch’s. What scattered thoughts he could muster were sluggish and vague.

“Do you wish to see them?” Emet-Selch was holding out his hand, dapper and courteous enough for a noble’s gala, and for a moment Urianger could only stare at it in disbelief.

Again, Emet-Selch gave an air of quiet waiting: he was the picture of infinite patience.

Urianger did not require it from him, for after one more steadying breath, he took his hand.

And then he was turning, taking Urianger through a portal. A step through complete darkness with only the touch of a gloved hand to anchor him - whether it took a fraction of a second or a thousand lifetimes was impossible to tell – and then they were through, suspended in the void with all of space laid before them.

His muscles went slack. He had a distant sense that, but for Emet-Selch’s magic holding him, he would have collapsed.

As the flowers that carpeted Il Mheg had lain below his feet that morning, so did the scattering of lights before him. The flowers had been beyond counting; to even attempt it was futile. This…this was something even greater than that, far, far beyond it, and his mind reeled to contain it all.

Around each star, the potential for another world, for hundreds of thousands of souls the like of which he could not guess, each with their own despairs and struggles and dreams. Every pinpoint of light called for his attention, clamouring to reveal its story to him, clustered together in glittering ribbons or completely alone.

There were swathes of coloured dust, billowing pillars in every colour he could name, and more besides - they unfurled in twisted shapes he could never have dreamed, and all contained in resounding silence that pressed against his ears.

Urianger could only offer a choked noise, so profoundly did his heart ache at the sight. He looked, and looked, and _looked_ , struck silent by his wonder and greedy for all that his gaze could hold.

“Isn’t it just?”

He could feel a tear being wiped from his cheek. When had he started crying? He distantly registered that Emet-Selch was standing closer than ever before, watching for his reaction instead of studying the cosmos before them.

Was all of this commonplace for an Ascian; had he become glutted on the sight? He could not conceive of ever growing accustomed to this. Was Emet-Selch truly unaffected?

“Not entirely,” came a murmur in his ear. “To see it anew through another’s eyes is a particular gift.”

He felt an arm around his waist and increasingly urgent flesh brushing against his hip, still concealed beneath Emet-Selch’s robes. Lips lay close to his cheek, the faint brush of hair that was not his own against his skin.

Urianger tore himself from the siren call of the void and turned to face Emet-Selch.

All reason had fled now. He fixed his thoughts on the soft lips against his, the surging feelings that threatened to escape his chest and had no recourse but to pour into Emet-Selch instead. His hands clenched desperate fistfuls of Emet-Selch’s robes, before relaxing their grip and stealing up to cradle both sides of his neck, feeling the hum of faint surprise there.

Urianger, too, could be patient – and he would prove it. He tasted softly, inexorably, offering stubborn tenderness where Emet-Selch had clearly expected passion, and brushing his thumbs along his jaw. He continued exploring, all gentle, feigning not to notice Emet-Selch’s unspoken requests for more: lightly-nipping teeth, a certain breathlessness that was claiming him, hands wandering over Urianger’s shoulders before hooking in jewelled chains and tugging, and a boneless quality to the body curling into him.

It was only when Emet-Selch let a soft whimper escape that Urianger moved back. Emet-Selch’s eyes were glazed and hungry, a flush blooming along his neck, his lips swollen, and seeming younger than ever.

“Wilt thou return us home now?”

Emet-Selch blinked, clearing his throat, and summoning a portal with a distracted wave. He all but carried Urianger through – not returning to the living room, but to his bedroom directly.

What little pretence lay between them was abandoned.

Emet-Selch whirled to face him once more, lifting his chin to stand defiant. He made a show of removing his gloves, looking down at Urianger the whole time – and a fine show it would have been, but Urianger was more interested by the trembling he could see in the long fingers.

For a heartbeat, he was tempted to simply keep watching, to see shaking digits fumble at Imperial regalia – but he decided against it. He drifted closer and started methodically removing the outer layers that Emet-Selch wore, lifting away piece after piece: gilded epaulettes, red and gold and black and white, and the occasional glimpses of soft skin revealed, until only his undershirt remained –

“My turn.”

If Emet-Selch had been content to watch thus far, he was no longer so placid. There were still faint tremors that set Urianger’s jewelled chains to faintly jingling, but he was caught by the way he set about removing them: Emet-Selch was so _slow_ , attentive and as orderly as he had been, gently unhooking one link after another, and it brought a brilliant warmth to his face.

It was the delicacy and care that Urianger showed to his oldest, most precious artefacts, and he was not remotely prepared to be treated in the same way. He hurriedly cleared his throat and looked away when Emet-Selch turned aside to place the chains on the writing desk at his wall.

Only when his robes were being slid off his shoulders did he return to kissing Emet-Selch, winding his fingers into his hair and tugging with just enough pressure to force him to divide his attention between lips and hands. He could feel Emet-Selch’s hands struggling at the buttons of his shirt, fluttering between their chests.

His own heart fluttered in a like manner; his throat was hoarse already, and he moved to trace Emet-Selch’s neck with his tongue and teeth, savouring the hiss of in-drawn breath above him.

His shirt finally cast aside, Emet-Selch urged Urianger against the wall. He was tracing his nails along Urianger’s scalp, stroking his ears – _gods_ – scratching down Urianger’s back and determinedly heading further still. He hooked his thumbs into Urianger’s smallclothes and used them to drive their hips together, and groaned when Urianger gripped his back hard in return, panting into his neck and paying no mind to the scrape of teeth he was leaving against his neck.

They had passed beyond speech; the air filled with shaking moans, the harsh rhythm of ragged breathing, and the soft, promising sound of under-skirts and smallclothes alike sliding to the floor.

The first touch of Emet-Selch’s hand against his cock was electric, and when he followed by gripping the both of them together, a scorching, encircling pressure, Urianger _wailed._

He pressed his hand to his mouth, his whole body flushing hot with chagrin, but Emet-Selch merely laughed and took his hand away. He pressed his forehead against Urianger’s and spoke in a deep, desperate voice that he could feel to his toes –

“I _want_ to hear your noises, starchaser.”

Urianger whined, and managed to gather himself enough to gasp, “Th-the bed, if it please thee.”

“Of course,” and he was led over with the same grace as before, if with a certain urgency as well.

He was pressed down onto the mattress, laying on his belly, with Emet-Selch above him, a hard chest against his back and a harder pressure below that. He gripped a fistful of pillow and panted into it.

Emet-Selch stroked a hand through his hair, and leaned close – so close – to ask, “Have you any oil?”

Urianger could only shake his head, squeezing his eyes shut to blot out his embarrassment. He had not concerned himself with such pleasures in years; it had seemed an unnecessary self-indulgence.

“It’s alright.” He heard a snap of Emet-Selch’s fingers, the rush of aether, and the faint thud of a glass bottle being set on his bedside table.

“I will not hurry you, have no fear.”

He was flushing even hotter with the reassurance, struggling to remain still at the sensation of his bedsheets brushing against his cock – everything was burning, now. Surely his skin would catch alight.

“Shhh.” There were lips at his ear again, a soothing hand rubbing his shoulder.

“…Emet-Selch?”

“Mm?” There were faint, liquid noises behind him now. Emet-Selch had moved away slightly while he worked, and the rush of air against his back felt like a balm. Urianger’s cock twitched of itself; he raised his hips to relieve the pressure on it, head spinning at the sensation of presenting himself to Emet-Selch instead. He longed to stay there, open and ready to be used in the pretend-anonymity of having his face hidden, but –

“Thy pleasure is from watching, is it not so?”

Dark laughter filled the air again. Urianger gritted his teeth, and wondered if it was possible to reach completion by the sound of voice alone. He did not care to test it, just now.

“I have many pleasures in this world.”

“I would have thee watch me. Permit me to move. Please.”

He squirmed free, hissing at the rasp of fabric against him. Despite the difficulty of manoeuvring two sets of long limbs on a bed designed for one occupant, he finally managed to rearrange them both to his satisfaction.

Emet-Selch lay beneath him, a bottle in one hand and oil-slicked fingers on the other, staring up in delighted surprise. Urianger shifted his weight to comfortably straddle his thighs, and plucked the bottle free from Emet-Selch’s slackening grip.

“I would not have thee take all the work,” he murmured. He coated his hands in oil, the sinuous motion of his fingers drawing Emet-Selch’s attention, leaving no area uncovered.

Emet-Selch retrieved the bottle without being asked, almost obedient, and Urianger quickly decided that he would consider the responding stutter of his heart at some other time.

He brought his hands to Emet-Selch’s cock, flushed and ready by his hip, and despite his efforts to warm the oil it was still enough of a shock to make him hiss at the touch.

Then Urianger began to move his hands, and any momentary discomfort was forgotten. He dragged his palms upwards and followed with tracing fingers returning down the shaft, alternating between slow, bold strokes and delicate circular motions, and Emet-Selch whimpered and shook before him, gold eyes still fixed directly on his.

He switched his grip, stroking in only a single direction, from base to tip, alternating hands in such a way that Emet-Selch would have no respite from his touch, until –

“ _Fuck,_ Urianger..!”

He slowed to a glacial pace, kept one hand encircling the base of Emet-Selch’s cock, and used his other thumb to sweep a firm line along the sensitive underside, to explore the fluid at the tip.

“I am ready for thy preparations now.”

Emet-Selch squeezed his eyes shut, turned aside for a moment to catch his breath, gasping over the pillow, before he searched for the bottle of oil that had fallen from his hand.

He had to clear his throat a few times before he could speak.

“Bring…bring your hands either side of me – kneel up and lean over…”

He traced his oiled fingers along the cleft of Urianger’s ass, leaving cooling trails of oil along the way. Then he found his goal and-

Time froze. His entire world narrowed to the feeling of Emet-Selch’s touch at his entrance, not even pressing within yet, but just _there_.

He felt Emet-Selch kiss his cheek, rub his back with his other hand, and then he began to gradually work in a fingertip.

Urianger gaped. He could vaguely feel himself gasping into Emet-Selch’s shoulder, his staggered breathing failing him, and Emet-Selch was still pressing further in, and _in_ , and while Urianger had already observed the length of his fingers this was a completely different kind of knowing – he was stroking the side of Emet-Selch’s hair, tangling his fingers in the strands, torn between canting his hips backwards for more and jerking forward to rub his cock against him.

He was crouching over an Ascian, being slowly, maddeningly worked open with an endless determination. He couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ think, could barely speak, had no way to wrap his mind around what was happening; he was a storm of sensations alone.

He felt words being whispered into his ear, but he couldn’t discern the shape of them.

There were two fingers curling inside him, now, stretching him and gently twisting, starting to drag out of him and back inside, and it had been so, so long since he had been toyed with in this way.

More words in his ear; the barest nip of teeth to get his attention. Had there been a question? Did Emet-Selch expect to hold a conversation while he was doing _this_ to him?

There were nails scratching along his back. The fingers within him were slowing. He took a shaking, sobbing breath, and tried to attend:

“Are you ready for a third?”

“Gods. _Gods._ Emet-Selch, I need – “

He thought he’d been clear enough already, by moving to meet each thrust, but he could vaguely appreciate that Emet-Selch was still attempting to confirm his choice, entwined as they were.

“What do you need? _Tell me_ , Urianger.”

Then again, Emet-Selch may just be trying to make him beg. On the whole, Urianger could not summon too much concern about it.

“You’re doing well for one so out of practice. Use your words, ask me. You can do it.”

He could feel Emet-Selch grinning into his neck. The shudder that took him just sent renewed waves of pleasure through him, and his concentration was slipping once more.

There was a hint of a snarl in the mouth against him now; the suggestion of teeth readying to mark him.

If Urianger ended up with marks where others could see –

A moan tore from him, his arms shaking from the effort of holding himself upright and passably still. To carry visible signs of the understanding they had reached, the price he had paid – he wanted all of it. He wanted everything Emet-Selch could give him.

“I need, I need…thy mouth, thy fingers. Thy marks on my flesh. I need all that thou offerest, _please,_ I cannot bear it – “

He felt Emet-Selch’s approval in the tracing of a third fingertip at his entrance, in the clamp of teeth on his shoulder, and he was shouting his gratitude into the sheets trapped beneath them both.

He was beyond control now, thrusting back onto Emet-Selch’s fingers – so delicate, so strong, he must ask if he played any musical instruments – greedy and relaxing ever more easily around the stretch.

And then he was being urged upright once more, fingers withdrawing altogether, and he sobbed with the emptiness that remained, bereft – but now Emet-Selch was gripping his own cock and angling it just so, and encouraging Urianger forward, and down, and _down._

As the tip breached him, he let his head fall back, eyes unseeing and lungs seizing. How could any of his choices possibly have led him here, how could any one person bear so much feeling? His nerves coursed with lightning, his heart was hammering, and when Emet-Selch caressed his cheek and tipped his head to meet his gaze, he saw the whirling majesty of the cosmos once more.

A brilliant flush painted Emet-Selch’s cheeks. His eyes were wide and glittering and entirely fixed, unblinking, on Urianger as he lowered himself as far as he could go.

His lips were slightly parted, and Urianger leaned down to kiss him, wanting to murmur thanks into his mouth. He was pushed away, back to sitting upright, and he did not expect such a strong pang at the rejection, but then Emet-Selch rolled his hips and –

_Oh._

He did it again, triumph in his eyes, and Urianger hastily gripped the base of his cock, desperate to keep some control, but Emet-Selch had brushed against the place within him that stole his breath and set his limbs trembling, and he was building up to a rhythm that was irresistible.

“Let go for me, it’s alright, I want to _see-_ “

He was so _strong,_ even beneath Urianger’s weight - he was almost lifting and dropping Urianger by himself to meet his own thrusts. When Urianger gathered enough strength to add his own effort, the tension in his gut abruptly snapped, and he was spending his release over Emet-Selch’s stomach.

His face was wet, his throat felt scraped raw; his body was no longer under his control. His shoulder stung where it has been bitten, and his fingernails would surely leave claw marks on his thigh.

He watched Emet-Selch panting beneath him, trying to memorise the slight crimp in his brow, the tension in his jaw, the sheen of his sweat and the rising of his voice as he chased his own pleasure. He moved his own hips to help, grinding onto him, and Emet-Selch’s voice _broke_ while warmth flooded him.

Soft, panting silence. They simply stared at each other for a time, caught in wonder, waiting for the return of equilibrium.

He could tell when Emet-Selch began to recover, for some amused superiority was returning to his features. He swallowed a spark of regret, of fear – would all this just become another lever for Emet-Selch to bend him to his will?

Surely it was a grave mistake to bed an Ascian; to drop his defences so was every kind of foolishness – it only remained to see exactly what consequence it would bring.

He eased himself off, aching muscles already beginning to protest, and staggered to the next room to find some washcloths. The seed dripping down his thighs was an entirely new sensation, gloriously filthy, and his ears were burning as he wiped it off.

When he returned to the bedroom with fresh cloths for Emet-Selch, he found him sitting up, already clean, and sorting through the pile of fabric to separate his own clothes from Urianger’s. He only waggled his fingers in response to the confused look that Urianger no doubt wore.

“I can help you clean up too, if you wish.”

“There is no need. I have already attended to it.” His attention had been caught by his jewellery, laid aside with exquisite care, glinting in the light.

“Oh? Do you like feeling full afterwards? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I have not the magic that lies at thy disposal. I am unaccustomed to shortcuts.” He would not meet Emet-Selch’s gaze, could not face him at all.

“My magic is at your disposal, too.” There was something there, an undercurrent of something far more dangerous than mere carnal relations, but exhaustion was beginning to claim him, and he could not examine the meaning any more closely. He sighed, and bent his efforts towards dressing without falling over.

“Urianger.” There was a snap of command in his voice, and he turned to obey before his dizzied thoughts could catch up. Emet-Selch was wearing his smallclothes and naught else, and showed no signs of reaching to dress fully.

“Will you not rest?”

“I think it were best if thou left, Emet-Selch.”

“I can make the bed bigger.”

“That is not what troubles me.” He was so _tired,_ his only wish was to be alone to gather himself once more, to collect his self-control and don it as easily as he could his clothes.

“I see. You’ll tumble an enemy, but sleeping with them afterwards is where you draw the line? A ridiculous distinction. If I wished to harm you I would have done so before now.”

Did that mean - had he never meant to harm him, then? He could not tell which carried more terror: that this was all a scheme of manipulation, to prompt a lapse in his vigilance, or that it was…genuine, on some level.

It was not only want of sleep that was surely addling Urianger’s wits – he longed for the true relaxation of darkness and relative safety. The Waking Sands had its share of intrusions, but at least there he could be certain that none would pass the guard. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting of homesickness, the fear that he would never again see his home chilling his heart once more.

There was a time when Urianger would have refused to place any trust in an Ascian’s words. That time had clearly passed, so what was it that kept him rooted where he was?

“You are exhausted, and refusing to admit it will not change a thing.” A bite of impatience in Emet-Selch’s words, now.

“I am fond of sleeping myself, though I scarce need to. You mortals are so invested in ignoring the messages of the body.”

Urianger only looked at him. He had no answer to give, and no way to frame the jumbled questions that coursed through him.

“Come to bed; you’re no good to anyone in this state.” He snapped his fingers, and a boiling curtain of darkness – true darkness, the like of which he had not seen in years – sprang to life at the window.

For the first time in a century, the Bookman’s Shelves knew darkness.

Urianger took a step forward. Though he normally knew his room well enough to navigate it without sight, he caught his foot on a stray boot, and would have fallen had Emet-Selch not been ready to catch him.

His hands were so soft, with the gloves removed. Again he wondered at the care shown to him, as they were settled on the narrow bed and covered with the bedclothes.

He barely felt the tingle of aether at his scalp, nor did he need its encouragement to sleep.


End file.
